Thoughts on an eclipse.

Jan Marie
Jan Marie
Aug 22, 2017 · 2 min read

Spring break of my freshman year in college, I bought a Greyhound bus ticket that would take me first to Indiana and the man who would later become my husband, and then to home. It was a cold, shitty spring in Chicago. I woke at 5 am to get myself to the bus station on time, which involved dragging myself and my overstuffed backpack through melting snow and grimy slush from Davis on the Purple Line to Howard on the Red Line to Jackson on the Blue Line. The Jackson station smelled like stale urine and cigarettes, and there were puddles of slush everywhere. By the time I got to the bus station, it had soaked through my shoes.

I got on the bus, and I don’t remember much about the trip, which maybe means I fell asleep, or maybe means I’ve made the drive from Chicago to Indianapolis enough times that it fails to imprint itself on my memory anymore. But then from Indianapolis to Bloomington, and in Bloomington it was spring. It felt like I hadn’t just traveled across the state line, but across some invisible demarcation, like the International Date Line except for entire seasons.

It felt like a gift. You could smell the thawing earth and the flowers starting to bloom. I stood in it and just felt glad to be alive, in that place, in that moment.

Today I felt the same, watching the moon eclipse the sun into a tiny crescent, and knowing that all across this vast continent, people had come together to look up at the sky. Together we stood in the shadow of the moon and together we emerged again into the light.

I don’t really believe in signs, but I do believe in gifts, and just like that spring day in Bloomington 21 years ago, today was a gift.

And I am happy to be alive, in this place, in this moment.

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